"I don't mind making jokes, but I don't want to look like one."

I love fashion. But I hate change. 


Around this time last year, I went to the hair salon. Desperately needed a cut and after sitting in the chair for what seemed like hours, I'd decided I'd had enough of this and needed a, dare I say it? ...Change.
"Try and go back to my natural blonde please oh, and could you give me some bangs?" I looked at her with scolding eyes, as this is the first [& last] time I would ever trust a stranger with my hair. Another hour or so goes by, she blow drys me, gives me a hug [yes, I always get in my hairstylists good books-- I don't want to look like Lady Gaga at the end of it all] and I walk back to the boat I was on at the time. Everyone immediately started complimenting me on my hair. Saying how good it looked, and that it was a good choice to get bangs and a new hair colour. A new hair colour? Pardon? I ran to my mirror, realizing just how strange it was that they didn't really have any in the salon. As I came to it, to my horror, I was practically a brunette. I nearly cried. Being a blonde my whole life and actually loving it, I was mortified that this bitch had changed my hair so drastically. And I paid her to do it! 

Fast-forward a year. 
I am yet again in my "I want a change, but do I?" stage. Like the magazine-reading-whore I've become, I knew how drool worthy luscious red lips have become. Not to mention I gawk over the beautiful Marilyn Monroe posters in my room night after night. So it was only a matter of time before I jumped in too. 
I must say, when the Lize Waiter consult took me away from my "Burnt" in one hand and "Rose" red lip shade confusion in the other, I was rather relieved. Professional help was just what I needed. Half and hour later and I was caked in foundation and my lips glowed so red you'd think I just became a vampire. 
I was pleased. 
Finally, a change I think could really grow on me. . . 

xx

You're the kind of reckless that should send me running

I have this disease called addiction.

It’s not gambling, smoking, eating, hoarding or shopping – although I do have a rapidly growing collection of shoes, nail polish and products. But that’s more of a girl thing…

It’s classifying things in my life into ridiculous [sometimes unrealistic] categories.

It’s buying that one sweater when I absolutely don’t have money to spend on it, but walking with it in my hand out of the store, convincing myself I needed it.

It’s the, not so odd, glass bottle of wine that I’ve taken up on the weekends. 

It's kissing. 

It’s the feeling that I sometimes want to check Facebook even when there is no need.

It’s lying in bed on a rainy day

It’s singing hopelessly, terribly loud in the shower when I have no business singing out loud at all.

It’s the fact that I hate to text but do it anyways… a lot.

It’s worrying.

It's making others happy.

It’s having to watch TV before I go to bed. 

It's Subway. Eat Fresh.  

It’s watching full television series on my laptop.

It's keeping old notes/emails/cards from loved ones and re-reading them over and over again. 

It’s Hank Moody, McDreamy and DJ Pauly D.

It’s the act of getting addicted.

Just as I was doing a few of my addictions yesterday, the phone rang. There are few things I don't get in this world, but calls are one of them. Maybe its because I forget what my ringtone is, or maybe its because only 15 people have my cell phone number. Regardless, I picked it up not expecting much. So when I heard my doctor on the other end of the phone I perked right up. Turns out that this bad year of mine keeps on progressing. Ten minutes after I hung up the phone I had another appointment for that afternoon (which, if you have a family doctor, you know it is damn near impossible to arrange this within a few hours notice). Unless its absolutely necessary. After my 45 min appointment, I headed to Wal-Mart to pick up my new medication that, until 6 hours ago, I would have never of guessed I’d needed. I wondered how many other times I’d have to go the clinic on a day off? Or drop what I’m doing to make an emergency doctor visit? Or carry on living in a town I hate instead of traveling? Or, just get worried every time something miniscule changes with my body? I went home so frustrated, mad, pissed off and filled with questions. To top it all off, I now have a cold. Not a good combination.

Hello, my name is Alana...I have an addiction; it’s called a disease. 

xx

been losing faith for quite a while now.

Aug. 24

Today was my appointment with the doctor. A part from being so nervous I felt sick to my stomach, I managed to forget how to count, and walked right past suite 201. With my state of mind, filling out information sheets was the last thing I felt capable of doing, but if it was going to distract me from noticing I’m the only non-pregnant girl in the room- by all means!

I was eyes deep in my poetry book (yes, I carry one in my purse for moments such as this.) trying to relax when, “Alana? Alana Britten? The doctor will see you now.” I stood up, in what could only appear to be an unnecessarily, shocked jump, when the giant nine month pregnant lady gave me a pity smile. I walked to sit in the colourless office, and took the seat that was sturdy and perfectly placed next to the wall. It never occurred to me until now, but why is it that all doctors have chairs with wheels on them? Its not like they have a desk to sit behind or anything. Or are in the room long enough to take it for a ride in a 5 meter jaunt. 

No sooner do I take a seat, when the same shrill voice that called my name moments before, comes in to hand me a brouchure printed on the brightest, bluest paper I’d ever seen. So you know it must be important. I take one look at it and quickly shove it in my purse, as how could a LEEP (loop electrosurgical excision procedure) apply to me?

In attempts to keep my stressful mind-set at ease, I pick up the year old magazine (one I’d already read when it initially came out) and began flipping through it vigorously. I was, yet again, fully emerged in 2010’s summer hairstyles when, in walks a guy wearing dress pants and tie, holding a Tim Hortons coffee. He must be my doctor. It was hard to tell for sure, as the last time I saw him, he was head deep in my vagina and I didn’t exactly want to get a good look at his facial features, let alone look him in the eye. I keep thinking that each time I go to a gyno it will get easier to get over that fact, and in some ways it does, but it doesn’t stop it from being on the back of my mind each and every time.

The small chat that one would normally partake in with their doctors took place at this time. Mostly about the weather, with occasional references to how busy the waiting room is- and it was! But just as soon as it came, the small talk quickly turned serious as he explained to me the extend of the previous procedures results. I had been mentally preparing myself for the worst, so when the news of “pre-cancerous cells” came rambling out of his mouth, I let out a sigh of relief. Funny how a sentence containing the word cancer can go to complete opposite ends of the spectrum in seconds, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, I had wished the only “C” word that would be said in that room was “See you in another year!” but you don’t always get what you ask for. I figured this would be a good time to start controlling my facial expressions, as surely he could see I was about to burst into tears as he told me “I would have this problem for the rest of my life.” And I did. I left the room feeling a little bit better from his in-depth explanation as to what would happen next. I calmly made an appointment, grabbed my purse (which also doubles as my luggage these days) and walked in a quick but strong stride to the car. That’s when it happened. Tears. Before I even managed to shut the door.

I thought back to the last couple of years. The countless doctors visits, the endless worrying which often interrupted me from all my exciting adventures. I remembered how ever since my first abnormal pap test I was worried every single time something seemed out of place with my body.

What an exhausting past few years.

The tears continued for a few minutes until my alternative, realistic –often-considered “deep” mood kicked in. I started thinking about all the other woman out there who maybe have/had the same sort of results. All the ones that, were maybe too scared to go back and get it really dealt with- like I had originally been. I just hope, whatever the case may be, that they did bite the bullet and go. Because, although the doctors office may seem like a danger-zone to walk willingly into alone, you are anything but. They are there to help you and who knows, maybe your brave actions will help them catch it in time before anything more comes of it.

So, it could be worse. Other people are worse off then me, and I bet they didn’t break down in tears after their conversations with their doctor. I smarted up, wiped them away and put my truck into drive. 

 xx